Patrick Bateman Anticipates Harry Potter
by M. Soames
Summary: What might happen if Patrick Bateman was in a line for the seventh installment of Harry Potter.


Patrick Bateman Anticipates Harry Potter

I made sure to arrive at Borders early. While I had the final Harry Potter book reserved, Borders had an inane policy of giving out numbered bracelets to show one's place in line at night, and the bracelets became available as soon as the store opened on Friday. My limousine pulled up at eight o'clock on the dial of my Rolex. I stepped out dressed in a black top-coat by Valentino, a light suit by Giorgio Armani, shoes by Prada, Versace sunglasses, and gloves I picked up from Bergdorf Goodman. I approached the store, reservation in my top left interior pocket, eyeing a group of layabout fatties and emo-kids dressed in apparel from stores such as Hot Topic, Pac Sun and the like. Moving past them, I stood in front of the door.

"Hey, do you work here?" one of the fatties, a girl, asked.

Enraged that anyone would think I would stoop so low as to work in sales, and that anyone would think someone with my body, tan and clothing would even conceive the notion of so much as taking a measly internship at such an establishment, I managed to keep my cool and tell her no.

"Then the line starts over there," she said, pointing behind her group. I ignored her.

For the next fifty five minutes, I stood in front of the double-doors of Borders Books and Cafe watching people through my Versace sunglasses. There were two hardbodies, a true blonde and a brunette, that turned me on. Finally, two of the fatties from the group behind me and a thin goateed hippy fuck came up to me and started to hassle my stake as the legitimate first person in line. One of the fatties, the shortest, a goth, wore a cheap baseball cap that might have fallen out of a dumpster, glasses that made Harry Potter look stylish, and a top that revealed too much of bad cleavage. Above her breasts was tattooed a large pentagram, and below her lips were two metal studs. Compared to her, Rosie O'Donnell looked like Marilyn Monroe. She wasn't even a she. She was an it.

I reiterated my stake.

"You are NOT getting in there ahead of us! We were here since SEVEN O'CLOCK! You are NOT going in first!"

I tried to remain calm, even though they had touched my last nerve, and somehow kept my hand away from the nine millimeter in my pocket.

"You get OUT of this line," the repulsive goth yelled, "or I will make you get out!"

I took out my wallet, found five hundred dollars, and stuffed the money down its shirt. The doors to the store opened, and I entered. I waited in my limousine after I had secured my numbered bracelet, and kept an eye out for the goth. As they were leaving, I stepped out of the limousine, chloroformed it, and dragged it into my limousine. I told my driver to take me to the dock, where I rented a warehouse for just these occasions.

About forty minutes later, we were at the warehouse. I dragged the goth in, and closed the door. It was a musty old place with bad lighting. I undressed it (every article of it wore was made in either China or Korea), re-pocketing the five hundred dollars I'd stuffed down its shirt earlier, then I tied it up to an old wooden chair that looked like it was from the nineteen seventies and assembled in a half-assed manner by chinks. It looked like it had never exercised a day in its life. I waited for it to wake up, and it started screaming at once. First, a tore out its piercings, under the lips, then through the earlobes and above and in the eyebrows, then I cut its bottom lip off with a deluxe serrated knife I purchased from a German specialty dealer. Lip in hand, I rubbed it against the thing's vaginal area, then threw it aside. Blood had run onto the pentagram on its chest. I cut that off next, exposing bone and blood. Slicing the bottoms of its breasts open in order to render it flat-chested, I cut the lips of its cunt off, and stuffed them down its throat. Its struggling and screaming had me so turned on I came in my Burberry underwear.

For the finale, I untied its legs from the bottom of the chair, and folded them up around its head, retying them at the ankles right above its forehead. From there, I shoved the knife into its throat, and pulled it out so I could watch it bleed to death. But before it had lost consciousness, I procured a larger knife, sawed off its head, and stuffed it up its vagina. Satisfied, I took a picture of it with my Palm Treo, sent that to my computers at home and the office, and went to discard it. Before I discarded it, I cut chunks of its fat out to make it less unbearable, then threw it into the sea.

That night, her group wondered where she was while I got the first copy of Harry Potter. How I hope he dies.


End file.
